Private Scandals (4 page)

“What about Simon, or Maureen?” Her brain might have been cloudy, but Deanna remembered the chain of command.

“Neither one of them are suited for this. Simon does
excellent pre-interviews over the phone, and God knows Maureen’s a jewel at handling transportation and lodging arrangements. But these guests require a very special touch. Your touch.”

“I’d be glad to help, Angela, but I’m due in to the station at nine.”

“I’ll clear it with your producer, dear. He owes me. Simon can handle the second taping, but if you could just see your way clear to helping me out this morning, I’d be so grateful.”

“Sure.” Deanna shoved her tousled hair back and resigned herself to a quick cup of coffee and a bottle of aspirin. “As long as there’s no conflict.”

“Don’t worry about that. I still have clout with the news department. I’ll need you here by eight, sharp. Thanks, honey.”

“All right, but—”

Still dazed, Deanna stared at the phone as the dial tone hummed. A couple of details had been overlooked, she mused. What the hell was this morning’s topic, and who were the guests that needed such special care?

Deanna stepped into the green room with an uneasy smile on her face and a fresh pot of coffee in her hand. She knew the topic now, and scanned the seven scheduled guests cautiously, like a veteran soldier surveying a mine field.

Marital triangles. Deanna took a bracing breath. Two couples and the other women who had almost destroyed their marriages. A mine field might have been safer.

“Good morning.” The room remained ominously silent except for the murmur of the morning news from the television. “I’m Deanna Reynolds. Welcome to
Angela’s.
Can I freshen anyone’s coffee?”

“Thank you.” The man seated in a chair in the corner shifted the open briefcase on his lap, then held out his cup. He gave Deanna a quick smile that was heightened by the amusement glittering out of soft brown eyes. “I’m Dr. Pike. Marshall Pike.” He lowered his voice as Deanna topped off
his cup. “Don’t worry, they’re unarmed.”

Deanna’s eyes lifted to his, held. “They still have teeth and nails,” she murmured.

She knew who he was, the segment expert, a psychologist who would attempt to cap this particular can of worms before the roll of ending credits. Mid-thirties, she gauged, with the quick expertise of a cop or a reporter. Confident, relaxed, attractive. Conservative, judging by his carefully trimmed blond hair and well-tailored chalk-striped suit. His wing tips were polished to a high gleam, his nails were manicured and his smile was easy.

“I’ll watch your flank,” he offered, “if you watch mine.”

She smiled back. “Deal. Mr. and Mrs. Forrester?” Deanna paused as the couple glanced toward her. The woman’s face was set in a resentful scowl, the man’s in miserable embarrassment. “You’ll be on first . . . with Miss Draper.”

Lori Draper, the last segment of the triangle, beamed with excitement. She looked more like a bouncy cheerleader ready to execute a flashy C jump than a sultry vamp. “Is my outfit okay for TV?”

Over Mrs. Forrester’s snort, Deanna assured her it was. “I know the basic procedure was explained to all of you in the pre-interview. The Forresters and Miss Draper will go out first—”

“I don’t want to sit next to her.” Mrs. Forrester’s hiss squeezed through her tightly primmed mouth.

“That won’t be a problem—”

“I don’t want Jim sitting next to her, either.”

Lori Draper rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Shelly, we broke it off months ago. Do you think I’m going to jump him on national TV, or what?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past you.” Shelly snatched her hand away as her husband tried to pat it. “We’re not sitting next to her,” she said to Deanna. “And Jim’s not going to talk to her, either. Ever.”

This statement set the match to the smoldering embers in triangle number two. Before Deanna could open her mouth, everyone was talking at once. Accusations and bitterness
flew through the room. Deanna glanced toward Marshall Pike and was greeted with that same easy smile and a lift of one elegant shoulder.

“All right.” Deanna pitched her voice over the din as she stepped into the fray. “I’m sure you all have valid points, and quite a bit to say. Why don’t we save it for the show? All of you agreed to come on this morning to tell your sides of the story, and to look for some possible resolutions. I’m sure we can arrange the seating to suit everyone.”

She ran briskly through the rest of the instructions, controlling the guests in the same way a kindergarten teacher controls recalcitrant five-year-olds. With determined cheerfulness and a firm hand.

“Now, Mrs. Forrester—Shelly—Jim, Lori, if you’ll all come with me, we’ll get you settled and miked.”

Ten minutes later, Deanna stepped back into the green room, grateful that no blood had been spilled. While the remaining triangle sat stonily, staring at the television screen, Marshall was up, perusing a tray of pastries.

“Nicely done, Ms. Reynolds.”

“Thank you, Dr. Pike.”

“Marshall.” He chose a cinnamon danish. “It’s a tricky situation. Though the triangle was technically broken when the affair ended, emotionally, morally, even intellectually, it remains.”

Damn right, she thought. If anyone she loved cheated on her, it would be he who would be broken—in every way. “I suppose you deal with similar situations in your practice.”

“Often. I decided to focus on the area after my own divorce.” His smile was sweet and sheepish. “For obvious reasons.” He glanced down at her hands, noting that she wore a single ring, a garnet in an antique gold setting on her right hand. “You’re not in the market for my particular skill?”

“Not at the moment.” Marshall Pike was enormously attractive, she mused—the charming smile, the long, slender build that had even Deanna, who hit five-ten in her heels, tilt her head up to meet the flattering interest in the deep brown
eyes. But at this moment she needed to focus the lion’s share of her attention on the sullen group behind him.

“The program will start right after this commercial.” Deanna gestured toward the set. “Marshall, you won’t be going on until the final twenty minutes, but it would help if you’d watch the show to formulate specific advice.”

“Naturally.” He enjoyed watching her, the way she revved in neutral. He could almost hear the engine gun of her energy. “Don’t worry. I’ve done
Angela’s
three times.”

“Ah, a vet. Is there anything I can get you?”

His eyes slid toward the trio behind him, then came back to Deanna’s. “A flak jacket?”

She chuckled, gave his arm a squeeze. He’d be just fine, she decided. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The show proved to be emotional, and though bitter accusations flew, no one was seriously wounded. Off camera, Deanna admired the way Angela kept a light hand on the reins, allowing her guests to go their own way, then easing them back when tempers threatened to boil over.

She pulled the audience in as well. With an unerring instinct, she offered the mike to just the right person at just the right time, then segued smoothly back to a question or comment of her own.

As for Dr. Pike, Deanna mused, they couldn’t have chosen a more skilled mediator. He exuded the perfect combination of intellect and compassion, mixed with the concise, teaspoon-size advice so necessary for the medium.

When the show was over, the Forresters were clutching hands. The other couple had stopped speaking to each other, and the two
other women
were chatting like old friends.

Angela had hit the mark again.

“Decide to join us, Deanna?” Roger pinched her arm as he swung up beside her.

“I know you guys can’t get through the day without me.” Deanna wove her way through the noisy newsroom toward her desk. Phones were ringing, keyboards clattering. On one wall, current shows from CBC and the other three networks
were flashing on monitors. From the smell of things, someone had recently spilled coffee.

“What’s our lead?” she asked Roger.

“Last night’s fire on the South Side.”

With a nod, Deanna sat at her desk. Unlike most of the other reporters, she kept hers meticulously neat. Sharpened pencils stood points down in a flowered ceramic cup, a notepad aligned beside them. Her Filofax was opened to today’s date.

“Arson?”

“That’s the general consensus. I’ve got the copy. We’ve got a taped interview with the fire marshal, and a live remote at the scene.” Roger offered her his bag of licorice. “And being a nice guy, I picked up your mail.”

“So I see. Thanks.”

“Caught a few minutes of
Angela’s
this morning.” He chewed thoughtfully on his candy. “Doesn’t discussing adultery so early in the day make people nervous?”

“It gives them something to talk about over lunch.” She picked up an ebony letter opener and slit the first envelope.

“Venting on national television?”

She lifted a brow. “Venting on national television seemed to have helped the Forresters’ relationship.”

“Looked to me like the other couple was heading for divorce court.”

“Sometimes divorce is the answer.”

“Is that what you think?” He kept the question light. “If your spouse was cheating, would you forgive and forget, or would you file papers?”

“Well, I’d listen, I’d discuss it, try to find out the reason it happened. Then I’d shoot the adulterous swine full of holes.” She grinned at him. “But, that’s just me. And see, hasn’t it given us something to talk about?” She glanced down at the single sheet in her hand. “Hey, look at this.”

She angled the sheet so they could both see it. In the center of the paper, typed in dark red ink, was a single sentence.

Deanna, I love you.

“The old secret admirer, hmm?” Roger spoke carelessly, but there was a frown in his eyes.

“Looks that way.” Curious, she turned the envelope over. “No return address. No stamp, either.”

“I just pulled the mail out of your box.” Roger shook his head. “Somebody must have slipped it in.”

“It’s kind of sweet, I guess.” She rubbed a quick chill from her arms and laughed. “And creepy.”

“You might want to ask around, see if anybody noticed somebody sneaking around your mail slot.”

“It’s not important.” She tossed both letter and envelope in the trash and picked up the next.

“Excuse me.”

“Oh, Dr. Pike.” Deanna set down her mail and smiled at the man standing behind Roger. “Did you get lost on your way out?”

“No, actually, I was told I’d find you here.”

“Dr. Marshall Pike, Roger Crowell.”

“Yes, I recognized you.” Marshall offered a hand. “I watch you both often.”

“I just caught part of your act myself.” Roger slipped his bag of candy into his pocket. His thoughts were still focused on the letter, and he promised himself he’d slip it back out of her trash at the first possible moment. “We need copy on the dog show, Dee.”

“No problem.”

“Nice to have met you, Dr. Pike.”

“Same here.” Marshall turned back to Deanna when Roger walked away. “I wanted to thank you for keeping things sane this morning.”

“It’s one of the things I do best.”

“I’d have to agree. I’ve always thought you report the news with clearheaded compassion. It’s a remarkable combination.”

“And a remarkable compliment. Thanks.”

He took a survey of the newsroom. Two reporters were arguing bitterly over baseball, phones were shrilling, an intern wheeled a cart heaped with files through the narrow spaces between desks. “Interesting place.”

“It is that. I’d be glad to give you a tour, but I do have copy to write for
Midday.
”

“Then I’ll take a rain check.” He looked back at her, that sweet, easy smile at the corners of his mouth. “Deanna, I was hoping, since we’ve been through the trenches together, so to speak, you’d be willing to have dinner with me.”

“Dinner.” She studied him more carefully now, as a woman does when a man stops being simply a man and becomes a possible relationship. It would have been foolish to pretend he didn’t appeal to her. “Yes, I suppose I’d be willing to do that.”

“Tonight? Say, seven-thirty?”

She hesitated. She was rarely impulsive. He was a professional, she mused, well mannered, easy on the eyes. And more important, he had exhibited both intelligence and heart under pressure. “Sure.” She took a square of notepaper from a smoked-glass holder and wrote down her address.

“
C
oming up on
Midday,
the story of a woman who opens her home and heart to Chicago’s underprivileged children. Also the latest sports report with Les Ryder, and the forecast for the weekend with Dan Block. Join us at noon.”

The minute the red light blinked out, Deanna unhooked her mike and scrambled up from the news desk. She had copy to finish and a phone interview scheduled, and she needed to review her notes for the upcoming “Deanna’s Corner.” In the two weeks since she had pinch-hit for Lew, she’d put in more than a hundred hours on the job without breaking stride.

She whipped through the studio doors and was halfway down the hall toward the newsroom when Angela stopped her.

“Honey, you only have two speeds. Stop and go.”

Deanna paused only because Angela blocked the way.

“Right now it’s go. I’m swamped.”

“I’ve never known you not to get everything done, and at exactly the proper time.” To keep her in place, Angela laid a hand on her arm. “And this will only take a minute.”

Deanna struggled with impatience. “You can have two, if we talk on the move.”

“Fine.” Angela turned and matched her stride to Deanna’s. “I’ve got a business lunch in an hour, so I’m a little strapped myself. I need a tiny favor.”

“All right.” With her mind already on her work, Deanna swung into the newsroom and headed for her desk. Her papers were stacked according to priority: the precise notes to be transcribed and expanded into copy, the list of questions for the phoner and her cards for “Deanna’s Corner.” She turned on her machine and typed her password while she waited for Angela to explain.

Angela took her time. She hadn’t been in the newsroom for months, she mused, possibly longer, since her offices and studio were in what CBC employees called “the Tower,” a slim white spear that shot up from the building. It was a not-so-subtle way to separate the national and non-news programs from the local ones.

“I’m giving a little party tomorrow night. Finn Riley’s due back from London this evening, and I thought I’d give a little welcome-home thing for him.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Deanna was already working on her lead.

“He’s been gone so long this time, and after that nasty business in Panama before he went back to his London post, I thought he deserved some R and R.”

Deanna wasn’t sure a small, bloody war should be called “that nasty business,” but she nodded.

“Since it’s all so impulsive, I really need some help putting everything together. The caterers, the flowers, the music—and of course, the party itself. Making sure everything runs smoothly. My secretary just can’t handle it all, and I really want it to be perfect. If you could give me a couple of hours later today—and tomorrow, of course.”

Deanna battled back the sense of resentment, and obligation. “Angela, I’d love to help you out, but I’m booked.”

Angela’s persuasive smile never altered, but her eyes chilled. “You’re not scheduled for Saturday.”

“No, not here—though I am on call. But I have plans.” Deanna began to tap a finger on her notes. “A date.”

“I see.” Angela’s hand went to her pearls, where her fingers rubbed one smooth, glowing sphere. “Rumor has it that you’ve been seeing a lot of Dr. Marshall Pike.”

The evening news might run on facts and verified information, but Deanna understood that newsrooms and television studios ran on gossip. “We’ve been out a few times in the last couple of weeks.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to interfere—and I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Dee.” To add intimacy to the statement, Angela rested a hip on Deanna’s desk. “Do you really think he’s your type?”

Torn between manners and her own schedule, Deanna chose manners. “I don’t really have one. A type, I mean.”

“Of course you do.” With a light laugh, Angela tilted her head. “Young, well built, the outdoorsy type. Athletic,” she continued. “You need someone who can keep up with the vicious pace you set for yourself. And a good intellect, naturally, but not overly cerebral. You need someone who can make his point in quick, fifteen-second bites.”

She really didn’t have time for any of this. Deanna picked up one of her sharpened pencils and ran it through her fingers. “That makes me sound sort of shallow.”

“Not at all.” Angela’s eyes widened in protest even as she chuckled. “Darling, I only want the very best for you. I’d hate to see a passing interest interfere with the momentum of your career, and as for Marshall . . . He’s a bit slick, isn’t he?”

Temper glinted in Deanna’s eyes, and was quickly suppressed. “I don’t know what you mean. I enjoy his company.”

“Of course you do.” Angela patted Deanna’s shoulder. “What young woman wouldn’t? An older man, experienced, smooth. But to let him interfere with your work—”

“He’s not interfering with anything. We’ve gone out a few times in the last couple of weeks, that’s all. I’m sorry, Angela, but I really have to get back on schedule here.”

“Sorry,” she said coolly. “I thought we were friends. I didn’t think a little constructive advice would offend you.”

“It hasn’t.” Deanna fought back a sigh. “But I’m on deadline. Listen, if I can squeeze out some time later today, I’ll do what I can to help you with the party.”

As if a switch had been thrown, the icy stare melted into the warmest of smiles. “You’re a jewel. Tell you what, just to prove there’s no hard feelings, you bring Marshall tomorrow night.”

“Angela—”

“Now, I won’t take no for an answer.” She slid off the desk. “And if you could get there just an hour or two early, I’d be so grateful. No one organizes like you, Dee. We’ll talk about all of this later.”

Deanna leaned back in her chair when Angela strolled away. She felt as though she’d been steamrolled with velvet.

With a shake of her head, she looked down at her notes, her fingers poised over her keyboard. Frowning, she relaxed them again. Angela was wrong, she thought. Marshall wasn’t interfering with her work. Being interested in someone didn’t have to clash with ambition.

She enjoyed going out with him. She liked his mind—the way he could open it to see both sides of a situation. And the way he laughed when she dug in on an opinion and refused to budge.

She appreciated the fact that he was letting the physical end of their relationship develop slowly, at her pace. Though she had to admit it was becoming tempting to speed things up. It had been a long time since she’d felt safe enough, and strong enough, with a man to invite intimacy.

Once she did, Deanna thought, she would have to tell him everything.

She shook the memory away quickly, before it could dig its claws into her heart. She knew from experience it was best to cross one bridge at a time, then to prepare to span the next.

The first bridge was to analyze her relationship with Marshall, if there was a relationship, and to decide where she wanted it to go.

A glance at the clock made her moan.

She would have to cross that personal bridge on her own time. Setting her fingers on the keyboard, she got to work.

Angela’s staff privately called her suite of offices “the citadel.” She reigned like a feudal lord from her French provincial desk, handing out commands and meting out reward and punishment in equal measures. Anyone who remained on staff after a six-month probationary period was loyal and diligent and kept his or her complaints private.

She was, admittedly, exacting, impatient with excuses and demanding of certain personal luxuries. She had, after all, earned such requirements.

Angela stepped into the outer office, where her executive secretary was busily handling details for Monday’s taping. There were other offices—producers, researchers, assistants—down the quiet hallway. Angela had long since left the boisterous bustle of newsrooms behind. She had used reporting not merely as a stepping-stone, but as a catapult for her ambitions. There was only one thing she wanted, and she had wanted it for as long as she could remember: to be the center of attention.

In news, the story was king. The bearer of the tale would be noticed, certainly, if she was good enough. Angela had been very good. Six years in the pressure cooker of on-air reporting had cost her one husband, netted her a second and paved the way for
Angela’s.

She much preferred, and insisted on, the church-like silence of thick carpets and insulated walls.

“You have some messages, Miss Perkins.”

“Later.” Angela yanked open one of the double doors leading to her private office. “I need you inside, Cassie.”

She began to pace immediately. Even when she heard the quiet click of the door closing behind her secretary, she continued to move restlessly, over the Aubusson, past the elegant desk, away from the wide ribbon of windows, toward the antique curio cabinet that held her collection of awards.

Mine, she thought. She had earned them, she possessed them. Now that she did, no one would ever ignore her again.

She paused by the framed photos and prints that adorned a wall. Pictures of Angela with celebrities at charity events and award ceremonies. Her covers of
TV Guide
and
Time
and
People.
She stared at them, drawing deep breaths.

“Does she realize who I am?” she murmured. “Does she realize who she’s dealing with?”

With a shake of her head, she turned away again. It was a small mistake, she reminded herself. One that could be easily corrected. After all, she was fond of the girl.

As she grew calmer, she circled her desk, settled into the custom-made pink leather chair the CEO of her syndicate—her former husband—had given her when her show hit number one in the ratings.

Cassie remained standing. She knew better than to approach one of the mahogany chairs with their fussy needlepoint cushions until invited.

“You contacted the caterer?”

“Yes, Miss Perkins. The menu’s on your desk.”

Angela glanced at it, nodded absently. “The florist.”

“They confirmed everything but the calla lilies,” Cassie told her. “They’re trying to find the supply you want, but suggested several substitutes.”

“If I’d wanted a substitute, I’d have asked for one.” She waved her hand. “It’s not your fault, Cassie. Sit down.” Angela closed her eyes. She was getting one of her headaches, one of those pile-driving thumpers that came on in a rush of pain. Gently, she massaged the center of her forehead with two fingers. Her mother had gotten headaches, she remembered. And had doused them with liquor. “Get me some water, will you? I’ve got a migraine brewing.”

Cassie got up from the chair she’d just taken and walked across the room to the gleaming bar. She was a quiet woman, in looks, in speech. And was ambitious enough to ignore Angela’s faults in her desire for advancement. Saying nothing, she chose the crystal decanter that was filled with fresh
spring water daily and poured a tumblerful.

“Thanks.” Angela downed a Percodan with water, and prayed for it to kick in. She couldn’t afford to be distracted during her luncheon meeting. “Do you have a list of acceptances for the party?”

“On your desk.”

“Fine.” Angela kept her eyes closed. “Give a copy of it, and everything else, to Deanna. She’ll be taking care of the details from here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Aware of her duties, Cassie walked behind Angela’s chair and gently massaged her temples. Minutes clicked by, counted off by the quiet tick of the long case clock across the room. Musically, it announced the quarter-hour.

“You checked on the weather forecast?” Angela murmured.

“It’s projected to be clear and cool, a low in the mid-forties.”

“Then we’ll need to use the heaters on the terrace. I want dancing.”

Dutifully, Cassie stepped away to note the instructions down. There was no word of thanks for her attentiveness; none required. “Your hairdresser is scheduled to arrive at your home at two. Your dress will be delivered by three at the latest.”

“All right, then, let’s put all that aside for the moment. I want you to contact Beeker. I want to know everything there is to know about Dr. Marshall Pike. He’s a psychologist with a private practice here in Chicago. I want the information as Beeker collects it, rather than waiting for a full report.”

She opened her eyes again. The headache wasn’t in full retreat, but the pill was beating it back. “Tell Beeker it isn’t an emergency, but it is a priority. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss Perkins.”

By six that evening, Deanna was still going full steam ahead. While she juggled three calls, she beefed up copy that would be read on the late news. “Yes, I understand your position. But an interview, particularly a televised interview, would
help show your side.” Deanna pursed her lips, sighed. “If you feel that way, of course. I believe your neighbor is more than willing to tell me her story on the air.” She smiled when the receiver squawked in indignation. “Yes, we’d prefer to have both sides represented. Thank you, Mrs. Wilson. I’ll be there at ten tomorrow.”

She spotted Marshall coming toward her and lifted a hand in a wave as she punched down the next blinking light on her phone. “Sorry, Mrs. Carter. Yes, as I was saying, I understand your position. It is a shame about your tulips. A televised interview would help show your side of the dispute.” Deanna smiled as Marshall stroked a hand down her hair in greeting. “If you’re sure. Mrs. Wilson has agreed to tell me her story on the air.” Tipping the receiver a safe inch from her ear, Deanna rolled her eyes at Marshall. “Yes, that would be fine. I’ll be there at ten. ’Bye.”

“Hot breaking story?”

“Hot tempers in suburbia,” Deanna corrected as she disconnected. “I have to put in an hour or two tomorrow after all. A couple of neighbors are engaged in a pitched battle over a bed of tulips, an old, incorrect survey and a cocker spaniel.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“I’ll give you the scoop over dinner.” She didn’t object when he lowered his head, and met his lips willingly. The kiss was friendly, without the pressure of intimacy. “You’re all wet,” she murmured, tasting rain and cool skin.

“It’s pouring out there. All I need is a nice warm restaurant and a dry wine.”